


one for you, and one for me

by bottledlogic



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, pieces for each letter of the alphabet, season 2 to mid-season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledlogic/pseuds/bottledlogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's kind of like alphabet soup - words all jumbled up with nowhere to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one for you, and one for me

**Author's Note:**

> i seem to squeeze the life out of the subtext for H/P in the early seasons.
> 
> originally posted of ff.net a few months ago.

**hide (and seek).**

She remembers playing with Henri, the butler, and Denise, the maid.

Then with Ian (and Emily Prentiss).

She’s never felt the need to with Aaron Hotchner.

 

**momentum.**

She stares back defiantly. She’s ashamed that she’s lost some of her cool edge, and it’s only her second case. Her mother taught her better than this.

So she channels her frustration into a cold rant that she’s rather proud of.

Until she realises, as she walks out of his office, that this is only her second case and that was her boss.

She shakes her head slightly at herself, wary but undeterred, and promises never to be willingly caught up in another political game as a pawn.

 

**frenetic.**

Somehow, a lazy paperwork day manages to get turned into a car chase across DC. She’s sitting shotgun beside Hotch, who’s sitting calmly back, hands relatively relaxed on the steering wheel, inscrutable behind dark sunglasses.

Sirens wail, the car stops, they rush out, race up seven flights of stairs in a swanky hotel (while trying to look inconspicuous), muffled footsteps on plush carpets. Eventually, they corner the UNSUB in room 724 (with minimal pleas and denials), and he lets her slap the cuffs on, before handing him over to Metro PD.

They sit quietly next to each other on the way back. (She feels like whistling to break the silence.)

“Well, that was fun.” She doesn’t think she’s ever gone from mind-numbing boredom to a car chase and arrest in anything less than two and a half hours.

There’s a pause before he answers. “Prentiss, I still want your reports before you leave this evening.”

 

**jump.**

“Prentiss.”

His voice rings low and clear from the catwalk, and she stiffens and turns around.

“Sir?”

His eyes are darkened, but still convey lingering amusement. “I’m suspended. I think you can at least call me Hotch.”

“Of course,” she says, pauses. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

_You know, aside from quit the team to make sure you don’t go down for another bureaucrat’s undeserved ascent?_

“Is anything wrong, Prentiss?” He studies her closely, noting the set of her jaw and the faint lines around her eyes. “You did well, from what I heard. There was nothing we could have done, in the end. I’ve already told Strauss that.”

The look on his face turns slightly sour, and he almost misses the steeled eyes in front of him.

“No, Hotch, it’s fine, I’m just tired.” She sends him a soft, bittersweet smile. “Go home. Enjoy the two weeks with Haley and Jack.”

He carefully nods, letting it slide for now. He regrets being brusque with her at the start, but he makes a promise to get to know everyone on his team better, especially her.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, Prentiss.”

He definitely misses the pained expression this time.

 

**natural.**

He’s confused, until he isn’t. Until he remembers.

Granted, he hasn’t known her as well as he knows the other members of his team, but doing what he does, he generally has a good grasp of people. Which is why it’s odd that she’s chosen this case to make a (irrational?) plea for a victim. She’s never been cold and distant ( _no, that’s him_ ), but this doesn’t make sense, and he’s trying so hard not to just lash out and tell her that _she can’t just take her home_.

(there are children and there are families, and god, you can’t just take a child away from their family.

he still sits at home at night and waits for any sounds of life.)

So he settles for calling her out on her objectivity, to which she gives her defence on behalf of humanity. Like any of the other members on his team, she fights hard for her voice, her ideas, and he grudgingly can’t discourage her from that. Like mother, like dau–

Oh.

......

She thinks about John Cooley after they leave Denver. She thinks about Declan after JJ tells her she can see her with kids.

The thing is, she’s screwed up all her chances at a healthy parent-child relationship; either as the child, the parent of her child, or with the parent of the child. And she sees the desperation in Carrie, knows the gnawing ache and the guilt.

And if _she_ can have a second, third, fourth chance, why the hell can’t she?

 

**petrichor.**

They’re both standing outside the Academy parking lot, and she can smell the oncoming rain.

“I love the smell of rain.”

He grins slightly wistfully back at her. “It’s fresh,” he agrees. “Beats smelling office coffee all day.”

And she shoots him a crooked smile in return.

 

**xenon.**

She can’t sleep.

She can’t sleep, so she stares out the window of the jet, and sees red everywhere.

She wonders what it would be like to not remember, to not know. To be so close to the edge, that crossing over wouldn’t be anything momentous.

( _it pools and we drown drown  drown  drown_ )

She almost misses Hotch taking the seat in front of her.

“You know, he’s probably never going to get that voicemail out of his head,” she says softly. “He’ll keep calling and calling and it’ll drive him mad.”

“Yes.” He waits.

“I don’t doubt we’re all capable of doing horrific things. But not being able to remember or at least acknowledge that you did it? Memory defines our sense of self. It’s almost cruel, in a way.”

“Cruel for whom?”

She doesn’t answer. There are some days where she wakes up and she _can’t feel_. Intellectually, she knows what happened, what she’s done, who she’s given herself to. But she has boxes, and there are days where it is numb, where she doesn’t care, where she just gives up, and it scares the fuck out of her.

And there are days where it comes barrelling back, haunted and dark and stormy.

(My god, it hurts, but she’s alive.)

“Prentiss. Emily. We can’t remember everything and there is never an absolute way to think or feel. And sometimes it’s okay – good, even – to forget. It doesn’t make us any less human.”

She meets his eyes with a small nod and a reluctant smile.

The shadows don’t leave her eyes until she gets home.

 

**wake.**

He walks into the bullpen at five in the morning, and thinks that it’s a ridiculous hour to be at work.

(He also thinks about Haley and Jack, and that just multiplies the ache.)

Last night wasn’t the latest he’s left the office, but he’s grateful that Prentiss and Morgan stayed behind. Being the Unit Chief is lonely.

Exhaling, he unlocks his office, and the first thing that catches his eye is the neat stack of paper on the edge of his desk – forms and reports in triplicate neatly signed with her recognisable scrawl, along with a plain yellow sticky note.

_Hotch –_

_Morgan bet you’d be in before seven. I really hope he’s wrong, but in case he’s not, I’ve finished the reports from the Forsythe case in Phoenix. Please let me know whether or not I owe him lunch._

_\- Emily._

 

**seek (then hide).**

He’s ten years older than Sean, so it wasn’t terribly fun on his end.

(Plus there were other issues with his Dad and his Mom, and family in general.)

And then there was Haley and Jack, and it was perfect, and then she ran away.

( _tick tock tick tock, coming to get you!_ )

 

**omniscient.**

They all have urges to tell Spencer Reid to shut up.

So when he starts spouting off obscure facts, and critiquing general inconsistencies about Morgan’s Batman analogy – (no, it’s really not healthy to analyse whatever motivation Bruce Wayne had because of a messed up childhood, geez, we’re all products of our past) – they both exasperatedly turn to him at exactly the same time.

“Spencer.”

“Reid, focus.”

And smiles beg to be unfurled because the parents won that round.

 

**vapour.**

There is something intrinsically fleeting about Emily Prentiss.

Like any good story, it starts at the beginning, when he’s working the security detail for the Ambassador. He stands up straight, shakes her hand, nervous as hell (doesn’t show it, though), gives a bare hint of a smile, and listens carefully to the powerful and commanding presence in front of him. Dismissed, he walks out of the office and collides into the girl who’s just waltzed in front of him. He instinctively reaches out to steady her, only for her to pull back, flash him a mischievous grin and eye roll, and strides into the Ambassador’s office.

He doesn’t see her again until he’s staring into defiant chocolate eyes across his desk.

It’s sort of a pattern, he thinks. She arrives, he wants her out, she leaves, he chases. And then it all blurs together; a whirlwind of movement, like that time Reid was kidnapped and Garcia was shot and Dave went to Indianapolis, and she was doing – ridiculously, in hindsight – everything for everyone. A support structure, a rock, a cornerstone, if he wants to wax poetic about it.

(One never expects someone who turns up _out of nowhere_ to stay, permanently.)

 

**birds.**

David Rossi is a nosy bastard, and he doesn’t have binoculars like Gideon did, but he does have eyes, and watching them is as good a hobby as any.

 

**ruminations.**

They spend an extra night in Lower Canaan, Ohio.

She’s watching him out of the corner of her eye ( _has been since he stepped on the plane at Quantico_ ), because he’s a stubborn idiot. Facetiously, she thinks she can blame movies and television and pop culture in general for letting people think that the protagonist, the hero, must have the weight of the world on their shoulders. (But she won’t – _can’t_ – tell Jack that his father’s not a hero…

They sit on the bonnet of the SUV and stare up into the sky. She points out the various constellations, and he adds in his own knowledge, and together, she’s pretty sure they have the night sky covered. All neatly mapped out and sorted, and eventually, they’re lying down, _breathing, no talking, just look_.

…and she just wants to wipe the lines away.)

 

**listen.**

He really shouldn’t be here.

Really, really shouldn’t.

Like, to the point where he knows and fears what Garcia can do if he doesn’t move. Now.

He’s always been somewhat of a glutton for punishment, though. And his curiosity and tenacity has made him the agent he is now.

He blames the ear that wasn’t blown up in New York. He’s been angling his head slightly to hear better, and he’s been gradually adjusting to using that one ear.

And he hears his name.

He hears his name, and now he definitely wants to stay and listen. He tells himself (justifies) that it’s because he was walking past and he heard his name, and he didn’t want to interrupt, but he was going to knock on the door and tell them what a great job they did on this last case, and bid them a good weekend, and go home and hopefully see Jack, and _not think about this because it’s most definitely insignificant_.

God, it’s like he’s in high school.

So he doesn’t move from his sneaky spot; a small niche built into the corner of two walls, tucked three feet away from the door of Garcia’s lair. While listening to the three women on his team discuss _something_ in low serious voices.

He’s not stupid (nor comical) enough to be crouched down with his ear jammed against the door. If anyone passes, he could get away incongruously. Unless that someone happens to be Dave.

He tells himself that this is probably a common occurrence, that JJ, Garcia and Prentiss probably do this regularly, that there’s nothing wrong. Except he heard his name, and that will eat at him for the rest of the weekend.

The low voices turn into laughter, and he gives up, shakes his head at himself. He starts to walk away, but the dust from the corner makes him sneeze, and he walks away even faster.

Surprisingly, he _does_ forget about it. Until Monday rolls around, and he walks into the bullpen to see Prentiss smirking at him over the rim of her mug.

 

**zoo.**

“So, Emily was like, ‘Ladies, this is Brad, a _real_ FBI agent’, and he had the most gormless look on his face afterwards.”

“I’m guessing he moved pretty fast once he worked it out.”

“Ha, not until Emily asked to see his badge. Idiot decided to tell us everything was ‘classified’.”

“Hey, you guys helped as well. _No one_ can resist those eyes, JJ.”

They’re flying back from La Plata County, and he’s sitting in the corner of the jet, distractedly listening to his team (minus Reid, still sitting by the window, head in book, not-so-covertly sneaking guilty looks at Prentiss) fill in Rossi on all the rare after-hour happenings. He silently thanks his old friend for distracting them, because really, there have been far too many close calls (read: explosions and battered BAU members) in the last few months.

He’s heard most of the stories, but this is the first time he’s heard this one. And he can’t help smirking.

“Emily, I’m fairly certain JJ and Garcia wouldn’t have thought to prey on the poor man like that. Even if he was a creep.”

Four heads swivel around simultaneously, and he can’t help the small grin. Although, there’s a cold emptiness when he realises that they’re staring because it’s somewhat out of place for him to join in.

It’s Morgan who breaks the silence, raising his hand in a mock toast. “Well, here’s to our favourite ass-kicking, cult-smashing, fraud-hating agent.”

She catches his eye and laughs lightly at his expression, before receiving a tired smile in return.

 

**drunk.**

She is absolutely, undeniably, hopelessly _smashed_.

(Damn you, Las Vegas.)

And he’s sitting back, laughing, and definitely not her boss right now. Because he can see the bright lights twinkling back, and no, it’s not the mirrors, because these lights are _real_.

She staggers over clumsily, far from graceful professionalism, and drags him onto the floor with her. Spins him around, presses far too close.

(And it’s morning, and she looks like hell, and he can still smell the apples and the coconuts and the sweetness of everything, lingering, _and where the hell did that burning ache come from?_ )

 

**tired.**

Oh god. _Always_.

 

**esoteric.**

“So. Morgan was telling me about that night in Vegas. He said you seemed pretty happy to cheer Hotch up.”

She’s lounging against the bench in her best friend’s kitchen, cradling a glass of wine, hoping for a night of easy gossip and chatter, and this is decidedly not what she wants to talk about.

“Okay, firstly, you really shouldn’t listen to Morgan about these things. Haven’t you learnt from Garcia? And secondly, I was pretty well drunk that night, as you know. My memory of the night is not the greatest.”

JJ pauses, and stares contemplatively at her friend.

“It’s good. For you and him.”

She gives her a baleful glare.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And JJ only grins back knowingly. “Sure you don’t.”

 

**kaleidoscope.**

(In his dreams, he dances with her on a stage brightly lit with dancers’ costumes.

They twirl and spin and spin and twirl and his head feels light and high, a tangle of limbs and music and lights, and he falls, screams, wakes up, forgets.)

 

**clean.**

He finds her in the locker room afterwards, sitting on the wooden bench, hair still curled, but dress stowed carefully away. Her eyes are slightly dimmer and her nails are starting to fray.

He waits. She cracks.

“I’m glad it helped. And Jordan did well out there.”

“Prentiss, I’m not after a performance report right now,” he says, allowing the barest hint of amusement to colour his tone.

“Yeah. I know.”

They sit in silence for another minute. ( _We can spare another minute, right?_ )

“Let’s go. We have a killer to catch,” he inclines his head towards the door.

She nods slightly, before pushing herself off the bench.

“Prentiss,” he says, body half through the door. “Don’t let the boxes get to you.”

 

**gas.**

Henry is a beautiful baby – all bright-eyed, and soft skin, and ten fingers and toes and pure innocence. It’s a lovely picture, all of them, and it was a hell of a case, but they’re home and JJ’s here, and it’s like the universe and all its freaky things just pressed pause for a moment.

Morgan makes him laugh, and yeah, she can put it down as gas. But when Henry makes Hotch laugh, she knows it’s anything but.

(They both feel the pang of loss.)

 

**apples.**

It’s mesmerising.

He’s surprised, actually; he thought it would have been Morgan or even Reid. But then he thinks about it ( _you’ve been doing that a lot lately, haven’t you?_ ), and it makes perfect sense.

He’s seen her tapping fingers, tapping feet, twisting and folding pieces of paper.

And then he spies the apple being tossed in the air, perfectly caught on its downward trajectory, over and over and over, perfectly synchronous and everything –

 – and he wants to knock it off course, because, really, that’s what _she’s_ doing right now.

 

**indomitable.**

The interrogation room is electrically charged. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen this level of intensity nor partnership in anyone doing their version of Good Cop, Bad Cop.

She’s exhausted, and all she wants is this one last case with the BAU to be over. She confided to Agent Rossi that the cases (the stories) were getting to her, but to be honest, its members are too. She has nothing against them personally, but she cannot understand the depths and darkness of their minds to hunt monsters day after day after day.

Collectively, they scare her. Especially the duo currently trying to question the life out of the woman. She thinks she understands Agent Hotchner on the surface, and she has every respect for the man who gave up so much in the pursuit of justice, never smiling, always drawn.

On the other hand, she can’t seem to reconcile the varying pieces of Agent Prentiss; she recognises passion and warmth and fun, the slip of a victim’s name, mixed in amongst the ability to (too) easily slip into another skin, an idiosyncratic amalgam of ice and fire.

She knows that, despite their unit resembling a chaotic family, they’re all lonely. But she can’t help feeling that these two might be the loneliest of all.

 

**universal.**

No one’s surprised when Garcia calls movie night on a weeknight, with pizza and popcorn and more artery-clogging junk than should be eaten in one sitting.

No one’s surprised when Rossi protests.

No one’s surprised when Morgan and Reid fight over the movie. (She personally would have picked _Casino Royale_ , but she’ll let Reid win against Morgan any day.)

No one’s surprised when JJ falls asleep halfway through, and she offers the guest room for her and Will and Henry.

Everyone’s surprised though, when _Hotch_ falls asleep on her shoulder.

She glares at them, one by one, and eyes turn slowly back to the screen.

(She does let out the peaceful smile on her face, though.)

 

**query.**

She invites him over because JJ brought Henry in today, and he is lonely.

They sit in front of the fireplace and she brings out marshmallows and ice cream and chocolate. _It’s comfort food_ , she tells him, and he looks at her disbelievingly. _It’s diabetes waiting to happen_ , he shoots back.

And this back and forth, round and round, continues for the rest of the night and well into the morning. They somehow end up playing Twenty Questions and he wants to roll his eyes at her fanatical glee. He learns things about her that he wished he knew, and she learns things that she wished she didn’t. He laughs, she laughs, she grins, he smirks, she dances, he sings.

There is a lull at around two in the morning, and this time, she asks.

He accepts, and they both agree not to tell anyone (not that it’s weird or anything to let your boss take the spare room after binging on sugar and slumber party festivities on a weeknight), simultaneously raising unimpressed eyebrows when Rossi presses too hard.

 

**yesterday.**

He walks slowly towards the still figure, and comes to a silent stop next to her.

“I’m sorry about Matthew.”

She shuffles her feet in the snow, hand still dabbing at her nose, and gives him a small nod of acknowledgement.

“Thanks,” she manages, gratefully accepting the handkerchief he hands her. She glances sideways at him. “I thought you were escorting Silvano?”

And she’s surprised, because she doesn’t remember ever seeing her supervisor look abashed. “Rossi insisted I apologise.”

“I don’t want you to apologise if _Rossi_ insists,” she snarks back, posture shifted to the defence. He gives her a passive look, and she deflates. “Look, I’m sorry, it’s… it’s been a rough few days.”

His gaze softens, and he hesitantly reaches his hand out for hers. “Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t make it any easier.”

In all honesty, rules and regulations and policies and international diplomacy and being the goddamn Unit Chief didn’t make it any easier. But politics is an integral (and defining) part of his job, and even though there’s no one else on the team (except her) that would understand that, he still thinks he could have improved on the compassion front.

There’s a comfortable pause before she ventures to speak again.

“Matthew… was there for me when there really was no one else. And it _sucks_ , what happened after. It’s partly – _mostly_ – my fault, and I don’t blame his parents.”

“We all leave behind people,” he replies simply.

“Doesn’t make it any easier or less tragic.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

She sighs again, and lets her eyes wander to the church in front of her.

“The past defines us. We can’t escape that,” she whispers in a cracked voice. She stares directly at him, and he can see the haunted memories eddying.

“No,” he agrees again. “But you can choose to move on, move forward.” He doesn’t know enough about her past, hadn’t really thought to check because it didn’t matter professionally, but he can tell that there’s _something_.

(Heaven knows she can see it in his eyes too.)

“I’ll give you a ride home,” he says, and she nods again, still grasping lightly on his hand.

He pulls back and gives her a slight hug, and she looks up, stunned at the uncharacteristic gesture. He bends down to murmur in her ear.

“There’re people here on this side, too.”


End file.
